


Whitespine Caged

by freoduweard



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Adolin focus with minor appearances by the others, Canon Compliant, Gen, Introspection, Other, Words of Radiance spoilers, basically all gen, there's also enough to interpret Kadolin if that's your cup of tea, though Renarin gets a much longer scene than the others, though there's canon levels of Shadolin in one or two parts there's no overall romantic focus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-08 16:03:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12868095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freoduweard/pseuds/freoduweard
Summary: (alternately: 'ADHD Extrovert Goes A Tad Bonkers When Cooped Up in Prison')A look at the prison chapters inWords of Radiancefrom a different point of view: Adolin.---The highprince paused in the doorway of the cell, his broad figure silhouetted by the light of the spheres outside. The cool glance he sent over his shoulder was unreadable.“Captain Kaladin will be held until such time as the king sees fit to release him.Youare kept here only by your own decision.”





	Whitespine Caged

**Author's Note:**

> Kaladin = 15 days in prison (three full Rosharan weeks), Adolin = 13 days in prison
> 
> _quoted Kaladin dialogue excerpt(s) from WoR, p. 672, 674 (American hardback)_  
>  _quoted Shallan-Adolin dialogue excerpt from WoR, p. 754-755 (American hardback)_  
>  _quoted Adolin-Kaladin(+guard) dialogue excerpt from WoR, p. 778-779 (American hardback)_
> 
> Many thanks to @spasticcharge for beta-reading!

—  || ♜♛

 

A few days in, Adolin was no longer as comfortable with his decision to imprison himself. The room hadn’t felt quite so small at first, but as time passed, the walls seemed to close in, becoming cramped and confining. _Bridgeboy probably has it worse_ , he reminded himself, spinning on his heel as he turned to pace the length of his cell again. The number of steps it took to cross it had become intimately familiar. Long strides ate up the distance easily, and then another turn to pace back the other way.

It was a private cell, at least; there was a solid door and walls, instead of open bars. A single spherelamp lit the room with the gentle white glow of clearchips. A cell like this was meant for mid-ranked lighteyes, not for holding common criminals. The darkeyed captain - Bridgeboy - _Kaladin_ \- was held farther on down, deeper in the building where the guards could maintain tighter security. Not that said security was _needed_ ; the storming man was loyal enough and _idiot_ enough to jump into a dueling arena with no Plate amongst six Shardbearers.

Though could Adolin really call it _loyalty_ , even if the bridgeman only held such for Dalinar? No, Kaladin had only done what was right, what any lighteyes in those stands with a Blade and a single shred of honor _should_ have done. Even so, there had been a spark of trust in those deep, dark eyes ever since Oathbringer changed hands. Kaladin might face Adolin with grudging respect, but the only lighteyes that the bridgeman ever showed a glimmer of _real_ trust for was the highprince - the one who set him free.

 _That must have been why he abandoned all sense and leaped into the ring._ Why else would the captain come to save him? Protection via guard duty was one thing, even with the very real threat of assassins, but coming to save Adolin with only a spear was barely short of attempted suicide.

It wasn’t that he was ungrateful. Did this make it the second or the third time that he owed his life to Kaladin, between the Tower, the Assassin in White, and now this? There was no question - Adolin’s opponents would have killed or crippled him. Relis had even said it outright, an audible sneer in his voice. _‘This isn’t for honor. It’s simple punishment.’_ Punishment that would have left Adolin with grey, useless limbs or burned-out pits in place of eyes had it continued that way for much longer.

But his brother had come for him first.

Renarin stepped onto the sand of that arena with only his Blade and the barest amount of training in how to use it, all to give his brother a fighting chance. It backfired, true. That didn’t change the fact that it was the bravest thing Adolin had ever seen.

Bridgeboy jumping in had to be the second though. _One of the ten fools indeed._

But what a _duel_. He had been apprehensive at first - how much could one spearman do against Shardbearers, after all? - but there had been something that felt very _right_ , standing back to back with Kaladin. And _storms_ , but that man fought like the wind itself. He was more than just a distraction, despite wielding no Shards. Even focused on his two attackers, Adolin didn’t miss Kaladin slamming both heels into Relis’ chestplate, or the web of glowing cracks that spread from that kick. As if that wasn’t impossibly impressive enough, Kaladin then somehow kept _two Shardbearers_ occupied while Adolin pounded Abrobadar into little more than crem. _When we get out of here, I’m going to demand a spar, Bridgeboy._

In time, he was going to ask for the story behind _‘You going to yield? Or do I get to kill my second Shardbearer?’_ as well.

That fight had been beyond exhilarating, a victory pulled from impossible odds and yet they _did it_. The adrenaline, the relief, and the sheer joy _sang_ in his veins, and Adolin had laughed his soaring heart to the sky, even as the weight of his own depleted Shardplate pinned him to the sand. _We won, we_ _ **won**_ _._ Even storm-faced Kaladin seemed caught in the sheer exaltation of it. It was truly a pity that their triumph was so short-lived, considering the chaos that followed.

And now he was here, for however long that would be. That freedom in the arena was replaced with a cage.

 

\---

 

“I thought you were too old for tantrums by now.”

Dalinar Kholin might have given up his Plate and Blade, but that hardly made the man any less intimidating. Shards were never what had made Dalinar the _Blackthorn_. Lesser men would have quailed before the leashed, seething anger in the highprince’s eyes, but Adolin knew his father and did not flinch away as the man spoke. “Do you realize what it looks like to have not only the captain of the Kholin guard but also the heir to the princedom himself thrown into prison?”

The question was clearly rhetorical. “I threw _myself_ in, as you very well know, and if I didn’t know exactly what kind of message it was sending then I wouldn’t be doing it.”

“And that is _precisely the issue_.” Dalinar stepped a pace closer, the closing distance a challenge all its own. “Who was the one lecturing me, all those weeks ago, on the danger it would pose if we were perceived to have weak leadership? The stability of Alethkar is already on tenuous footing as it is, considering the opposition we face and with even the surety of our allies’ support questionable. You’re the _next highprince_ , Adolin, and an act of defiance like this, from _you_ , aligns Kholin just as much against the king as the rest!” Bright blue flashed with the banked fury in that snarl. “Storm it, we’ve been trying to uphold and enforce Elhokar’s authority, not undermine it!”

“Elhokar overreacted,” Adolin snapped, meeting that stormwall with his own. Dalinar’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t interrupt. “Was Kaladin in the wrong to demand a boon? Yes. I’m not disputing that.” Adolin deliberately avoided mentioning Amaram and the accusations Kaladin leveled against him. Amaram was still his father’s friend, despite being one of Sadeas’ brightlords, and bringing up the focus of Kaladin’s ill-timed demand would only undermine the point he was trying to make at the moment.

“Elhokar can’t expect a darkeyes, and a former slave at that, to know the conventions of a formal duel. We could still have had Sadeas caught, I would have had him dead on the sands, if only Elhokar would have handled himself like a _king_.” Adolin’s voice hardened, trying to keep the rage of being thwarted at bay. “Instead, he backs down from the greater challenge at the same time as he loses control over every minor slight!”

“And this,” Dalinar gestured at the bare walls of the cell, “isn’t just as much of an overreaction? The Captain’s outburst is hardly what I would call _minor_ , and throws what I am trying to achieve in _very little time_ into even more question than before. You throwing your weight behind him - _not_ Elhokar’s handling of the situation - could be the last crack in this brittle stone.”

He wasn’t wrong. Much as Adolin hated to admit it, _he wasn’t wrong_. But this was how it had to be.

“I stand by my actions.” Straightening his shoulders and stiffening his back, Adolin raised his chin and fixed his gaze on the wall behind his father. _“Highprince._ ”

Adolin thought for a moment that he might have seen a flicker of mixed anger and pride in his father’s expression, but it was there-and-gone in the blink of an eye, and Dalinar sighed in frustration and turned to leave. The highprince paused in the doorway of the cell, his broad figure silhouetted by the light of the spheres outside. The cool glance he sent over his shoulder was unreadable.

“Captain Kaladin will be held until such time as the king sees fit to release him. _You_ are kept here only by your own decision.”

 

\---

 

At least he got baths, if he could really call them that.

Adolin still refused to leave the cell - that would be giving in, a betrayal, and even if the bridgeman captain never knew or cared, he would _stay in this cell_. The first time they offered to take him to the baths and Adolin turned them down, the guards looked at each other, resigned and with a hint of dismay, as if they hoped that the promise of cleanliness would lure him out. They probably thought that he’d ‘see reason’ once he got away from his cell. It was tempting, by all the _Heralds_ was it tempting, but Adolin had a point to make and principles to stick to.

He was given a bucket of cold water, some soap, and a washcloth, along with a towel for drying. That was it. As much as he longed for a proper tub and steaming water, he had to make do with the bucket. Better that than nothing at all.

Adolin gingerly ran the cloth down his sides, hissing at the sting whenever he used even slightly too much pressure. His torso was a patchwork of massive bruises. Shardplate could take a tremendous beating, but with his armor as damaged as it was by the time Renarin came into the arena, impact trauma transferred far more readily than it normally did. Strikes from those three Blades were bad enough, but storms, that hammer hit like a _chasmfiend_. Adolin had gotten his cracked ribs bandaged before he locked himself in the cell, but he was going to be mottled black and blue for a while yet.

Towel slung around his shoulders after drying his hair, Adolin sighed as he rubbed at his face. With no razor allowed him, his stubble was growing out, and the beginnings of a short beard scratched at his palms. _What would I even look like with a beard?_ Adolin always kept his face meticulously clean-shaven, ever since the first black-and-gold fuzz started appearing on his jaw. Dalinar never kept a beard either, and his memory of Gavilar’s features had blurred somewhat by the passage of years, so Adolin had no memory to reference for his appearance now.

He ran the pads of his fingers over the short bristles and shuddered at how strange it felt. Getting a bath, a change of clothes, and a proper razor would be a priority once he got out of prison. He had an image to upkeep, a betrothed to impress, and most importantly, if his brother saw him like this then Renarin would never let him live it down.

 

\---

 

 _Windstance._ The sound of boots-on-stone rang through the small room. The movements of Windstance were by nature limber, flowing, every sweep leading right into the next. The speed of each strike varied, intended to throw an imaginary opponent off-balance.

In the confines of his cell, Adolin sparred with the empty air.

After the initial warm-up, he had taken his shirt off so he wouldn’t start to reek. Ishi only knew when he’d get a clean replacement, and he’d rather not stink more than he absolutely had to. Unimpeded, sweat dripped down his shoulders and spine as he threw everything he had into his kata. Each footstep was solid, quick, deliberate; bare hands flashed through the air, unarmed. Adolin could _technically_ summon his Shardblade, but the sword was over six feet long - he simply didn’t have the space to do proper armed katas in his cell without slashing down the walls. So, empty-handed it was. Fists were just one more option, and one he was fond of using on the battlefield, even if the tactic was looked down upon in proper duels.

This was one of the things Zahel had taught him - how to apply the stance styles even without a sword. It helped that the stances weren’t so much _form_ as they were a mindset. No set techniques meant that any of the stances could be translated into motions that didn’t actually require a weapon. And he knew them, down to his bones he _knew_ them. Adolin had been doing this since he was six years old, and even going a single day without practice seemed… _wrong_.

And there was precious little else to do in prison.

 _Flamestance._ Adolin spun sudden and sharp on the ball of one foot, lashing out with a stiff knifehand. Quick strikes, never pausing, kick and snap and turn and- _oh storms, that’s a wall_. He softened the blow with a bend of his elbow and turned his momentum into a rebound off the stone of the cell, launching right into another series of jabs as his ribs sang with needling pain. He cursed himself for forgetting how small the space was. _What happened to your spatial awareness, Kholin?_

Too much running through his head, that was what. Adolin kept moving through the kata. The motion and exertion helped him think, and he needed that clarity. _Was Kaladin telling the truth? Is Amaram really a thief and a murderer?_

It would explain a lot. Adolin hadn’t missed the way Bridgeboy’s knuckles paled around the haft of his spear whenever Amaram was around, or the rigid set of his shoulders and the stormclouds behind his eyes. Kaladin had never bothered to disguise his dislike of Sadeas, but when he saw Highlord Amaram, that look became nothing less than pure, virulent hatred.

_‘He stole from me and slaughtered my friends to cover it up! Amaram branded me a slave!’_

Flamestance faltered.

 _If it_ _ **is**_ _true, how could I blame him?_

 _Stonestance._ Unarmed practice for this had his entire body engaged - each movement was slow and restrained, every muscle under tension. It was intended to feel as if he had to fight himself with every movement, as if he were pushing against the winds of a highstorm. Resistance wasn’t hard to imagine. The air in the room was thick and unmoving; there was no breeze, save perhaps a tiny wisp of air from beneath the doorframe.

Kaladin had lost them Sadeas. Kaladin and Elhokar both. That much, Adolin could be furious at them for. With that spectacularly botched Challenge, the entire objective of the plan had fallen apart. Months of maneuvering, wasted. Taking away Shards to punish and shame the Highprinces had been a large part of the plan, but the _aim_ was to get Sadeas’ treacherous hide into the ring.

He had been so very ready to kill Sadeas. Even now, boxed into this cell as the days bled away, his thwarted bloodthirst still _sang_.

 _Back to Windstance._ Tension bled away. The release from the tautness of Stonestance-kata left him moving fast and fluid, falling back into the familiar motions in an instinctive, unpredictable pattern.

Kaladin’s accusation of Amaram admittedly surprised him less than it should have. Not Kaladin’s challenge itself - Adolin had stood frozen in jaw-dropped shock when Kaladin’s voice rang out across the sands, demanding a Boon - but that the one he called to face him was _Amaram_. For as long as Adolin had known him, from everything the prince had ever heard of him, Amaram was perfect. _Too_ perfect. The highlord’s reputation was so pure he practically sparkled in the right lighting. _Chullshit._ The man was hiding something, but Adolin had never been able to guess what.

Adolin’s knuckles grazed stone as he swept wide. The memory of that moment on the sands played clear in his mind, over and over. It would not relent.

Kaladin, standing fierce and triumphant as he named Amaram _murderer_ to the entire arena, right before Elhokar screamed for his arrest.

Amaram’s face flickering with recognition and a jolt of fear. Of guilt.

 _This time, Bridgeboy,_ _ **I**_ _stand beside_ _ **you**_ _._

 

\---

 

In the midst of pacing the length of his cell, Adolin’s right boot suddenly stuck itself to the floor. The prince pitched forward with an undignified yelp and hit the stone chestfirst. He groaned and rolled over, tender bruises and cracked, bandaged ribs stinging from the impact. _What in Damnation was…?_

A floating blue-white ribbon vanished into the air with what he swore was a feminine giggle.

“...Sir?” The door cracked open and a guard peered in, looking mildly concerned.

“Nothing,” Adolin growled through his teeth. “Just a storming windspren, up to tricks.”

Never mind that there was no wind in the room to draw it there.

 

\---

 

“You have a visitor, sir.”

Adolin, who was valiantly attempting to stave off the lethargic phase of his boredom by running strategies in his head against himself, glanced over to see a familiar face appear in the doorway as the guard stepped back to make room.

Blue uniform, slight build, and the unmistakeable glint of gold-on-black.

_Renarin._

Adolin spun on his heel, grin plastered over his face, and practically _bounced_ over to greet his brother. Weariness evaporated in an instant. It was surprising to realize just how heavy the self-imposed isolation was resting on him, noticeable now that the foreboding weight was eased by Renarin’s presence. Almighty _above_ , but he’d missed his brother.

“‘Rin! Damnation, it’s good to see you.” Spreading his arms wide, he looked from one wall to the other, showing off his cell - bare save for its stone slab of a cot, unobtrusive chamberpot, and the closed spherelamp - before returning to Renarin with a wry grin and raised eyebrows. “Welcome to my grand suite. Can I tempt you to enjoy my hospitality for a while?”

“Judging by the groove you're wearing into the floor, you're already trying to give it the comforts of home.” Renarin glanced down and a tiny smile crept over his face. “I should have brought you something to occupy your hands.”

Adolin started to deny it, but the scuff marks from his boots _did_ make a distinct trail between one wall and its opposite. He shrugged, sheepish but accepting, and Renarin's smile twitched - a movement that would be an understanding smirk on someone else.

“I can’t stay for too long, though. I’m really not even supposed to be here at all.” Renarin’s gaze flicked over to the door of the cell, probably wondering how much the guards could hear through the thick, soulcast timbers. He’d bluffed his way in through sheer princely authority, then. “Father said that if you were going to be in prison, you’d be treated like it - but...” Renarin pulled his hand out of his pocket, and what he held there glittered in the light: a little glass bottle with a gem-topped stopper, pilfered from Adolin’s rooms. “I have a present for you.”

“You brought me _cologne?_ ” Adolin crowed in delight.

Renarin’s faint grin was full of silent teasing. “Just because you’re in prison doesn’t mean you have to _smell_ like it, right?”

Adolin grabbed his little brother by the scruff of his uniform and pulled him into a headlock, ruffling his hair mercilessly. Renarin only put up a token resistance, batting at him in laughing protest before Adolin let him go with one last, fond tousle, leaving an arm draped over his brother’s shoulders. Renarin readjusted his skewed spectacles with a smile on his face as he leaned into the welcome contact. He had been wearing those less and less in recent weeks.

“The thanks I get...” Renarin wrinkled his nose with an exaggerated sniff. “But I’m glad I managed to sneak in even one vial. You really do need it.”

Adolin rocked back with a theatric growl of betrayal, swiping for the bottle that Renarin easily let him take from his hand. “How could you say such a thing? My own _brother_!”

“ _As_ your brother, it is my duty to inform you when you’re anything less than presentable.” Renarin blinked, tilted his head to the side, and a slow smile spread across his face. “And here I thought I was being _nice_ by commenting on the odor rather than the beard.”

“Which is a feature that you will _not_ mention to Shallan,” Adolin leveled a threatening finger at his brother, though it was undermined by his broad grin, “or I’ll steal _your_ razor and we’ll see how you deal with the same.”

“I’d be dignified with a beard,” Renarin scoffed.

“You’d be _scruffy_.”

Renarin ducked out from under Adolin’s arm and punched him in the shoulder. “ _Dignified._ ”

Their lighthearted teasing wasn’t to last, though, and Renarin’s smile faded as a hint of disquiet crept in. Sadness, turmoil, and a sparking _anger_. His lips parted, as if to say something, then he paused and closed them again. Adolin stayed quiet. He learned long ago that he just had to be patient whenever Renarin fell silent like this, that glass-veiled blue gaze fixed on him without waver. He’d never found it disconcerting. He knew he simply had to wait.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t of any use out there, in the ring.” Renarin’s expression tightened as he spoke, and Adolin thought, _Ah. There it is, of_ _ **course**_ _he would-_ but Renarin continued on, words gaining momentum like stones tumbling down a hill. “I couldn’t _stand_ it, staying off to the side while they kept trying to corner you at every turn.

“Relis- he’s a storming _coward_.” Though his rage remained low-voiced in that hissed condemnation, Renarin’s full emotion was more than clear as his eyes burned with vicious fury. “Four against one? That’s Talenelat’s odds, and you _still_ almost beat them in that first surge! Three of them thrashed and leaking stormlight, even Father couldn’t’ve-” Renarin halted mid-sentence, eyes closing for a moment as his mouth pressed thin with the pain of the memory. “But then storming Jakamav came from the blind flank, and everything happened so _fast_ , the blows cracking your Plate, and I…”

He looked down, hands fisted tight against his thighs, digging into his trousers as if he were trying to throttle one of Adolin’s opponents with the pressure instead. “I knew I probably wouldn’t be much help. But I thought… if I could fight, if I could give you even a moment’s reprieve to catch your breath and counterattack…” Renarin lifted his chin, and it would take a blind man or an idiot to miss the blazing resolve of his face and bearing. The bitter hitch in his voice was far subtler. “I tried to make a difference, but in the end I was only a liability - one that had to be saved myself. Worse, they used me _against_ you, and even now the very thought of it tears me apart with the shame-”

“Hey.” Adolin caught his brother by the shoulders, his grasp firm but still light enough for Renarin to back away if the touch was unwelcome. “What you did out there was _amazing_. No Plate, only a short span of training, and you were on that sand long before Bridgeboy was. Your plan _worked_ ; you kept Abrobadar busy, and that allowed me to fight Elit and Jakamav while Kaladin distracted Relis. Just because Kaladin had to step in to help you doesn’t mean that you weren’t instrumental in the fight. If it weren’t for you, we might not have won. They’d have-” He cut off with a click of teeth and a tensed jaw. The way that his opponents slammed down his arm when he tried to yield burst through his mind, along with the memory of the chilling realization in that moment that they meant to kill or cripple him, dueling rules be damned.

Adolin tugged his little brother towards him, pulling him into a close, tight hug that Renarin mirrored. Pain streaked white and flaring through Adolin’s chest and up his back as his fractured ribs creaked under the force of Renarin’s clutching grip, but he didn’t ease up.

“Thank you,” he murmured into his brother’s crown. “You saved me, you and Kaladin, and don’t you dare let that be overshadowed. Hold it fast and crush any shame that rises beneath your heel.”

One last squeeze for emphasis, and Adolin let go, though his hands returned to where they previously rested over the knots of rank on Renarin’s epaulettes. His small smile shifted from soft reassurance to a grin, a little too sharp around the edges. “Though if this keeps up, I’m going to start dragging you along for morning kata and more practice. Now that you can take the field, I know without a doubt you’ll be there the next time I need you at my side in a fight.”

Renarin took a steadying breath as he released Adolin, but the corners of his mouth curled in an almost indiscernible smile as he looked up. “By your side is where I’ve always been. The only thing that’s changed is that there’s no lack of Shards stopping me now.”

Adolin lifted his chin a hairsbreadth, the very picture of confidence and pride. “Just so. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Renarin’s gaze didn’t waver as Adolin let his hands fall back to his sides. He could see as words came and went behind that piercing blue as Renarin sorted through what he wanted to say.

“It’s the right thing to do. Even if it’s not the _smart_ thing.”

His mind, long practiced at picking up what Renarin _didn’t_ say out loud, didn’t miss a beat as it filled in what was left unspoken. “I believe him. Despite how insubordinate and insufferable he can be at times, I- I _trust_ Kaladin. If Elhokar wasn’t being such a storming idiot, I’d probably be backing him in the ring rather than a prison, but...well, what’s done is done. I’m standing by Brid- _the Captain_ on this one.” Adolin loosed a long, drawn-out sigh as he rolled his eyes. “Even if it means I’m stuck here in this Heralds-forsaken box for the next month.”

Renarin gave him a Look, long and assessing, and Adolin knew that he was reading the unspoken too. _Not box. Cage._ Still, a twinge of amusement slipped across his face. “Elhokar was furious when he realized you were serious. Even after you two argued and you laid down your threat, he didn’t really _believe_ you would actually defy his decision and imprison yourself. You’d think he’d know better by now.”

Adolin snorted. “It’s not like Father was happy about it either. He made _that_ as clear as diamond.”

Renarin exhaled and glanced down at the floor, rolling the cuff of his coat between his fingers. “I thought, after everything the Captain’s done…” He shook his head and looked back up to Adolin. “Speaking of Father, I should leave before the guards decide they’ve allowed me too much leniency and come to drag me out of here.”

As much as Adolin wanted him to stay longer, Renarin had a point. There was only so much time they could steal before the guards would feel obligated to report the incident to their Highprince. He nodded reluctantly, but then grinned and waved an admonishing finger at Renarin. “Don’t go courting anyone while I’m stuck in here and can’t hear about it immediately after it happens. The ladies are probably all swooning at your feet after your show of bravery, stepping into the ring like you did.”

“Well, _someone_ has to comfort them now that you’re actually managing to keep a relationship intact.” A mischievous twinkle glinted in Renarin’s eyes even though his face remained mostly stoic - _mostly_ , but Adolin knew all of his brother’s little tells, and there was definitely amusement hiding in that expression. “There’s the one bridgeman who keeps sneaking glances when he thinks I’m not looking, or that musician from Lord Taneril’s entourage who’s easy on the eyes, especially with that delicate glove she uses for the harp-”

He cut off with a laugh as Adolin gasped in mock-scandalized outrage and thwacked him in the face with the poorly stuffed pillow from his cot. “‘Rin! Always make sure they’re willing to slip the chaperone with you before you go thinking about thin safehand gloves; you _know_ this! Though really-” Underlying laughter bubbled up from his chest, and it was accompanied by a rather unsubtle wink. “I can’t fault your taste.”

Renarin grabbed the pillow and smacked him right back in retaliation, though he was grinning the entire time. “Just try to keep your own relationship steady this time before you start commenting on _my_ efforts. Keep it up, and I’ll bring Shallan along to your release to see you in all your scruffy, unwashed glory.”

Adolin fell backwards onto the cot with a wounded, dramatic _flumph_ and narrowly missed cracking his head on the wall as he clutched at their improvised weapon. “You _wouldn’t!_ ” He flung the pillow as he sat up, missing Renarin entirely. His brother cocked a gold-streaked eyebrow at him, but sighed and smiled as Adolin rose back up and stepped in for one more hug, lingering, knowing that this would be the last they saw of each other for some time.

Breaking the embrace reluctantly, Adolin reached up to ruffle Renarin’s hair, fond and far more gentle than the tussle he’d instigated when Renarin first walked in the door. “Go on, get out of here before I decide that you’ve given me one insult too many today, and I’m forced to Challenge you in defense of my honor. Make sure you tell Sureblood that I haven’t forgotten him, and that it’s not my fault I haven’t come to spend time with him recently.” Even though it was. Sort of.

“And ‘Rin…” His voice softened, hand falling to squeeze Renarin’s shoulder. “Thank you. For everything.”

Renarin stood a little higher, shoulders pulling straight, and matched Adolin’s gaze with his own. “Always, brother.”

 

\---

 

It was only after his brother left - his cell once again empty, yet all the smaller for it - that Adolin opened up the bottle of cologne to find out which one Renarin had given him.

_Oh._

The scent that drifted up from the glass was one he didn’t often use. Adolin didn’t know how the perfumer had managed to capture such a scent so clearly - warm, bright metal with the distinct ozone bite of a storm on the horizon.

_Like I’m wearing my Shardplate._

There was no true weight to it, no power, but the subtle scent of stormlight-infused Plate was a gentle reminder of why he was in this cell in the first place. Of why he had caged himself.

_Thank you, Renarin._

 

\---

 

Adolin lay on the cell’s small cot, hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. Sleep was evading him more and more the longer he stayed imprisoned.

With the dark of night came thoughts and questions, jumbling around in his head as each called for attention, for him to make sense of them, and always they came at too late an hour for him to roll out of bed and get _moving_ to help him sort it all out. Things that didn’t occur to him during the day crept up into his consciousness, stirring awake memories both crisp and half-forgotten.

Sharp eyes caught more than some gave him credit for.

There had been a windspren swirling around Kaladin as he fought on the dueling sands that day. Even with his attention focused on two opponents, Adolin remembered seeing that. It was a glint of blue-white that spun with Kaladin as if they were partners in a dance.

The oddity of it hadn’t occurred to him before. A _wind_ spren - in all his years of fighting, Adolin had never seen that happen. They weren’t like musicspren, creationspren, or gloryspren; they weren’t drawn to people’s action and emotion. And yet, there one was. It seemed as natural there as it would if it were racing a highstorm’s wind shear line, rather than the slice of a spearman’s blade.

Beyond that, Adolin could swear he saw a… a _glow_ around the man - like stormlight. _Impossible._ Adolin’s armor had been losing enough stormlight to leave smoke-like trails behind each motion, even in the bright sun of the arena, but other than Renarin, the guardsman had been the only fighter on the sand not in Shardplate, and so the only other one that _wasn’t_ leaking a corona of light.

 _Except he was. He_ _**was**_ _._

Could it have been his eyes tricking him? The fight had commanded all of his attention in order to win before his Plate lost its mobility; there simply wasn't _time_ to linger on details that weren’t directly relevant to the battle at hand. But no - Adolin _knew_ what escaping stormlight looked like, knew how faint wisps betrayed hairline fractures in Plate, weaknesses he could exploit. And so he’d unthinkingly catalogued it, though the light was nearly invisible under the bright afternoon sun.

Men didn’t glow like that. Spheres did, cracked Plate did, but _people_ did not.

Save one.

That night when the Assassin in White attacked, the pale Shin trailed even paler swirls of stormlight in his wake. It was as if he were a lantern in the darkness of the hall, limned in soft white light. The assassin’s eyes blazed with an uncanny brilliance, and though Adolin saw their bright sapphire color, there was a luminescence to them that went beyond _light eyes_ ; they shone as if lit from within.

The faint aura that he glimpsed around Kaladin in their duel wasn’t nearly as strong as the Assassin’s. If they’d been fighting in the dark rather than full sunlight, the bridgeman’s light would be that of a chip against the Assassin’s broam. But it was _there_ nonetheless.

Adolin closed his eyes and pressed his head further back into his hands, into the pillow. That night had been the start of a more civil respect between the two of them, but even though Kaladin’s actions proved him more than worthy of their trust, one particular detail of the attack still clung at the back of Adolin’s mind and refused to abate.

He’d seen the man’s arm turn dull and grey. He’d seen it even past the pounding in his skull and the hazy sparks in his eyes from when he landed _hard_ \- first on the ceiling, then the floor, with that pair of impacts enough to knock him senseless for several precious moments. The clatter of Kaladin’s spear as it dropped to the stone snapped his attention there in a flash even as the Assassin stepped over him, the sound strangely sudden and out of place, and in that second he caught the horror on Kaladin’s face and the slackness in his fingers, wrist, and forearm.

Kaladin hadn’t used that hand when he tackled the Assassin right out of the hole in the wall and into the mercy of the winds. He’d lifted his arm to brace himself, but his right hand remained limp and strangely angled while the left clutched at the Assassin’s flowing robes.

Yet when Kaladin returned to Elhokar’s quarters, alive and sopping wet, his right hand moved as it always had.

It had taken a long stretch of consideration after that night for Adolin to conclude that his eyes and the almost-concussion hadn’t deceived him.

_Bridgeboy fell into the storm with a useless hand. He returned from it whole and hale, as if he hadn’t just fought off the Assassin that killed a king._

It was an impossibility. Shardblade-inflicted wounds never healed.

But so much had happened that night that shouldn’t have been possible. Bridgeboy surviving the fall from the Pinnacle. His father, pulling off a Lastclap that stopped his death by a finger’s breadth. _Falling onto the ceiling_ , as if gravityspren suddenly decided to have a laugh at Adolin’s expense. The Assassin in White, somehow draining the lights like they were cups with gaping holes.

The Assassin in White, seeping stormlight from his skin like a fractured diamond sphere.

_Kaladin, slightly too-bright under the sun as he cracked Shardplate with a single kick._

Adolin rolled over, buried his face in the thin pillow, and tried very hard not to think about the implications.

 

\---

 

In a testament to long-learned restraint, it took until the eighth day for his aggression and boredom and frustration to reach their combined limit, and Adolin busted open his knuckles on the cell wall.

A thin hiss, a roar, and his other hand bloodied the stone as well.

 

\---

 

“Wit!”

There was only one door to the cell, and it had been closed when Adolin turned to pace back the other direction just a moment ago. There had been no knock, no sound of the door opening, yet suddenly there was Wit, perched on the small cot as if he’d been there all along.

“Me!” The King’s Wit waggled his hands jauntily in midair, kicking back and crossing his ankles. He was sitting on the pillow. “And here I was worried that your eyesight would start degrading after all this time cooped up in a dark room, Prince Kholin - or, even worse, that you might forget me, and that simply wouldn’t do. It could even call into question my competence at this job, as the worst insults are the forgettable ones.”

Adolin side-eyed him for a moment, debating whether or not to kick Wit off of his pillow, but decided that that course of action would end up more trouble than it was worth. “So what are you here for, Wit?” Arms crossed, Adolin leaned back against the wall and surveyed his unexpected intruder. “Come to have a laugh?”

“A bit of one, maybe. Alas, you’re far too easy a target, so there’s no sport in it. You're not exactly a master of the witty riposte; unless, of course, it involves an _actual_ riposte, in which case I expect your opponent to be summarily stabbed. Really, your brother is the only one in your immediate family who can volley a good contest of words.” Wit _hmpf_ -ed as a fond little smile passed over his face. “Delightful young man. No, I’m just popping in for a chat.

“Considering your penchant for talkative young ladies and active hobbies, you must be _interminably_ bored, so I thought I’d grace you with my presence for a change of pace. I figured it was only fair, since I already paid a visit to our delightfully gloomy young Captain down the hall about a week and a half ago. He’s far less likely to receive visitors than you are, though not from lack of loyalty on the part of his men.”

At the mention of the length of time, Adolin nearly started. _Stormfather. Has it only been that long?_

Wit’s heels scuffed the stone as he suddenly rocked forward, fixing on Adolin that _look_ that was distinct to this Wit when compared to all the others before him, like he could peel back everything a person built up around themselves and find just where to press to get a reaction. “But. It appears that Sadeas’ old bridge crews aren’t the _only_ ones that storm-faced Stormblessed is inspiring.”

So _this_ was what Wit was here for. Strange. Adolin set his jaw, eyes narrowing ever so slightly in stubborn defiance. “This imprisonment isn’t even about his actions in the duel. I believe his accusation. Elhokar threw him behind bars without even trying to determine the truth of the matter - aside from asking Amaram whether he was guilty or not. That alone should be enough to justify my actions here.”

Wit tapped a finger against his lips, inscrutable. “And yet rather than simply ending your defense with an argument on the Captain’s behalf, you jeopardize your father’s already unstable authority by protesting the King’s decision in such a visible, dramatic manner. Soldiers take notice when one of their leaders doesn’t show up for days on end. That leads to rumors, _questions_. Kings don’t usually approve of those, especially if they suggest the possibility that said ruler could be _wrong_ , and even moreso when many of those asking are his adversaries.”

Adolin cocked his head, brow furrowing. “I knew that I’d hear a lecture from my father, but the last thing I expected was getting one from _you_ , Wit. Since when do you care about politics apart from getting to take verbal shots at highprinces?”

“Oh, but I'm not here to give a lecture, Prince Adolin. That was simply a statement of fact which you already know well. Context, if you will. No, I'm here to ask a question.” There was no change in his posture or gaze, but suddenly the air in the cell felt heavier, almost oppressive, as if whatever loomed before them was as inexorable as a storm.

No fool, Adolin remained silent.

“What is the difference,” Wit said, his casual tone belied by the intensity of his bearing, “between honor and loyalty?”

Adolin didn’t respond at first, immediately suspicious. This _was_ The King’s Wit, after all. “...isn’t that a trick question?”

“Granted, there is some overlap between the two concepts, but by no means are they mutually interchangeable. As I said, it is that _difference_ that I give you to think on. For Captain Kaladin, I needed an evocative story. For you…” Wit's eyes glittered eerily in the steady light of the spherelamp, and Adolin found himself shifting his balance away from the wall, his instinctive _fight_ response rising in the face of their intensity. “You have a tendency to _ponder_. And here you are, locked away in this cell by your own volition, where there is precious little else to do in the silence and isolation but cut, however slowly, to the heart of a matter.

“I think that leaving you here with a deceptively simple question will be the far more effective option.”

 _For what?_ Adolin eyed him warily, wondering just what it was that Wit was trying to accomplish. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Wit hummed, and the combination of the note’s strange tonality and those piercing, too-deep eyes was unsettling in a way that cut right to the bone. It reverberated on a layer that didn’t quite feel like _sound_.

No. It was the tremble of the world standing on a knife-edge.

Adolin glanced away.

“You’re already a bit cracked, Prince Kholin. If I were you, I’d take care to not let that go any further.”

Flicker-quick, Adolin spun, but only caught the _click_ of the door as it shut. The cot was empty.

Wit was gone.

 

\---

 

“Good news, by the way,” Adolin dictated to the ardent, Shoren, whose spanreed flickered across the paper with dutiful accuracy - or at least, so Adolin assumed. “Father visited last night, and we talked at length. He’s preparing his expedition out onto the Plains to fight the Parshendi, once and for all. Part of getting ready involves some scouting missions in the coming days. I got him to agree to bring you out onto the plateaus during one of them.”

It was the first time Dalinar had come to see him since their argument over Adolin’s imprisonment. From what little news Adolin had been able to glean from his guards and conversations with Shallan like this one, his father hadn’t been feeling well, though Adolin couldn’t see any sign of illness or fatigue; the highprince looked as hale as ever. No apology was offered from either side. A measure of tension still lingered between father and son, but the long days had curbed their initial flare of anger and the two of them had sat together and outlined plans for the expedition as if they were at a war-table and not in a stuffy prison cell.

 _‘And we can find a chrysalis?’_ Shallan wrote back. Even with the ardent’s less-than-passionate reading, Adolin could hear how excited she was about the possibility of finally getting out on the Plains. Though she couldn’t see it, his smile broadened across his face as he replied. They spoke further on the possibility of her examining a chrysalis, though she seemed let down that the creature would already be dead. Did she want to dissect a _live_ chasmfiend chrysalis? That woman… next time she’d be asking them if she could follow the army out on a plateau run!

In previous talks of theirs, he’d told her of the greatshell hunts he’d been on and the live ones he’d seen: the deep, reverberating trumpeting, the texture of the chasmfiend’s shell, how its blood smelled of mold - which, he admitted to her with a laugh, was the same as the Parshendi, strangely enough. The little firsthand details he’d offered only served to excite Shallan further as she barraged him with questions.

Last time, she’d enthusiastically elaborated on the different kinds of greatshells when he asked about her theories on the chasmfiends. It was a more-than-welcome distraction from the quiet solitude of his cell, and Adolin always leapt upon the opportunity to keep their conversations going. There was no way to hear her excitement or see it in the gleam of her eyes, but the ruby on the end of the spanreed flashed in the cell’s low light as it dashed across the page, the lines of script becoming sloppier as the questions had flowed from her pen in a torrent of ink.

He started to ask Shallan what she was going to need for the expedition, hand raised to gesture even though she couldn’t see it, when the reed flicked into motion again, this time with _‘I’ll need to go. Sebarial is asking for me.’_ Adolin’s step faltered in disappointment, his fingers curling as the spanreed’s light winked out.

His hand fell, and he nodded to Shoren. Dismissed, the ardent collected his reed and paper, bowed with a low, coarse murmur of _“Brightlord”_ , and retreated from the room, once again leaving Adolin alone in his cell. Without the ruby light from the spanreed’s gem, the walls felt even colder and more uninviting than usual, and Adolin felt the loss of company - no matter how far separated they were in truth - all the more keenly.

With a sigh, he touched the wall, dragging his fingertips down it to catch the rough texture of the soulcast stone.

These spanreed ‘talks’ were some of the few moments that he could actually count as enjoyable in this place. Adolin always tried to sound unconcerned when he spoke, not letting the wearying wear of his current situation show through. It wasn’t as if Shallan could hear the tone of his voice across the paper, but then again, who knew what a woman could glean just from reading?

He missed her. _Storms._ How had he become so attached to her already?

Oh, he knew about her situation from Jasnah’s conversations with Navani; his aunt had at least given him a little information and sought his opinion before promising him to an arrangement even as loosely binding as a causal betrothal. The Davars were a failing house, one that desperately needed an alliance, and a marriage would be the quickest way to save them.

That wasn’t unusual. _Every_ woman he courted was after the eventual position of ‘highprince’s wife’ and elevation to second dahn; it was a fact that never changed, and Shallan was no different. She needed that position to save her house. But she was also fun and engaging, she didn’t speak to him with condescension, and she asked the _oddest_ questions. Speaking honestly with her felt... natural. His heart fluttered whenever she leaned forward with that boundless curiosity focused on him as he spoke, or when the light caught her hair as she stifled a laugh with her sleeve. That flutter leapt into his throat the first time they held hands, her soft, tiny freehand palm resting against his swordsman’s calluses.

_Chana help me, but even with so little time between us, I already want to keep you safe and see you happy._

Shallan liked him best when he _wasn’t_ being the prince everyone expected him to be, as he had always been before with other women. She liked him when he was just… himself.

What worried Adolin was that he wasn’t sure that would be enough for her in the end.

He hoped it would.

For now, these conversations were all that Adolin could manage while cooped up in prison, and while genuine, he also tried to keep them lighthearted. He didn’t tell Shallan about the sleepless nights, about thoughts and decisions on trust. He did not tell her of the dim light, the creeping closeness of the walls, of how incessant pacing gave way to resigned stillness, or of how he was tempted to bring down the very stone around him for a chance to see the sun.

Adolin thought he understood now why she pitied the caged whitespine at the menagerie.

 

\---

 

_Decision made. Time to act on it._

Adolin knocked on the door to his cell. It swung open with a heavy groan to reveal a guard’s surprised face. The man blinked, brow furrowing in confusion, then belatedly stiffened into a salute. “...sir. You know this isn’t locked…?”

Resisting the urge to smile at the man’s surprise, Adolin gave the guard a single nod, as confident and authoritative as if he were handing out commands on the field, rather than yearning desperately to be free of his confinement. Right now, he was both.

“I’m not leaving. Not yet.”

It was a credit to the guardsman that his face only showed the barest hint of exasperation. The prince graciously ignored it.

“I have orders for when the captain and I are released.”

 

\---

 

As he stepped out into the hallway, Adolin took a deep breath. The air wasn’t too different, carrying only the hint of a fresh breeze, but he’d gotten so used to the stuffy, stale atmosphere of the cell that even that small hint was exceptionally clear. _Who knew that simple freedom could taste this sweet?_

Adolin turned to face the tall darkeyed captain, who was just as disheveled as he was, or even a little more so - rumpled clothing, unwashed hair, a messy black beard, and his eyes were more shadowed than the last time Adolin saw them. For once, the thunderous scowl that usually graced the captain’s face when Adolin was around was absent; instead, Kaladin stared in dumbstruck silence, utterly baffled at seeing the Kholin heir in a similar state.

What was he supposed to say in this instance? Even if there was an explanation that wouldn’t sound haughty, he couldn’t seem to find any words. Instead he nodded to the bridgeman, short and firm, and hoped that motion would convey everything he wanted to say.

Renarin would have understood.

Luckily, Kaladin broke the silence first. “He locked _you_ away? How…? What…?”

_No, Bridgeboy, I did that all on my own._

Seeing Kaladin again reminded him of what he’d decided, though, and so Adolin turned first to the guardsman. “Were my orders followed?”

“They wait in the room just beyond, Brightlord.” The unsurety in the man’s voice was obvious, but he apparently wasn’t the kind to question a Prince’s decisions - even when those involved gifting a darkeyed soldier with a full set of Plate and Blade.

Adolin set off down the hall, careful not to walk _too_ quickly. He was anxious to leave, but he didn't want to let the whole world know just how badly he was ready to be _out_ of the bunker-like prison and into the daylight once more. Behind him, Kaladin spoke to the guard, low and confused.

_Let them say what they will. I’ve made my point._

The echo of booted footsteps warned him of the approach before Kaladin loped into his peripheral vision. “Why?”

_...another simple question. It’s a lot like the one Wit asked, too; the answer isn’t as straightforward as it first appears._

“Didn’t seem right, you in here.”

And wasn’t that the least of it?

 

 

\---

 

“So, did you eventually settle on an answer?”

A lengthy pause, broken only by the quiet tapping of a finger on the hilt of a serviceable, unused sidesword.

“An action is honorable because it is right. Because it is _moral_. Defending those weaker than you, treating your people with respect, offering your enemy a chance to surrender - that’s honor.

“Loyalty… loyalty is more personal, more _vicious_. A loyal person will do what they feel is necessary - break their honor, break _themselves_ , if need be - for the sake of whoever or whatever holds that love.”

Silence again, and blue eyes turned back from the horizon. “Is that the response you were looking for?”

A quiet, enigmatic hum, followed by a smirk.

“The answer you found is for _you_ , not me.”

 

\---------- _**End**_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this a long time ago and then it got put into what felt like Eternal Hiatus/WIP because I was stalled on Wit's and Renarin's scenes (mostly Hoid, though I imagine that's unsurprising). It feels to good to finally have it done and posted!
> 
> As of the moment (11/29/17) I have only read about halfway through Oathbringer, which _shouldn't_ affect this fic, but you never know, and I kindly ask any commenters to not spoil anything. I'm liveblogging my reactions over on my main currently if you think you'd find that entertaining. And, as always, I'm open for drabble requests at [nightblink](http://nightblink.tumblr.com) and [luck-crowned](http://luck-crowned.tumblr.com).


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